Interesting Times
by Miss Malice
Summary: When the duel of the century gets out of hand, chaos ensues. Obi Wan versus the world: a flow of semiconsciousness. Not quite sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, but close. [noncon, alternate universe, and freeform punctuation warning!]
1. past tense

in the loving memory of Master Qui-Gon Jinn

**1. past tense **

they were.  
heroes, brothers, unlikely friends - a long time ago. yesterday. in past lives. mortal enemies now, and wasn't it clean a clean slate like a lightsaber running you through...  
...they were fighting, fiercely, desperately, past old scars and fresh wounds, past blood and reason, breaking rules and quite possibly the world, for  
they were so angry.  
they were so angry they forgot, and betrayal tasted the same to them, burning bitter intoxicating, bloody furious because rage does make one see red...  
they were fighting dirty, and Anakin was falling apart. it was too much for him, had always been too much power passion love hate fear too strong to handle for just a boy - a man  
it had changed him, molded him into something not quite human with just enough left to give the closest, loved ones a hope,  
just enough to make Obi-Wan pull back as though it was another training fight...  
"How _dare_ you!"  
that did it. he felt Anakin's rage _flare_ like a nova, shatter their world's already feeble foundations, knock the air out of him and the lightsaber out of his hands, rip through  
he felt a phantom hand close in an iron grip around his throat, and two real ones twist in his shredded robe. Anakin, their Chosen One, their golden boy, ablaze and too close  
"You dare say you loved me... Then you shouldn't have fucked with me."  
he did not close his eyes. Anakin tasted like blood and fire, like murder, like madness, like death golden-eyed laughing death when something gave and broke and turned upside down -  
- and they _were_ fucking, brutally, hatefully and absurdly, there, in the yawning mouth of hell  
Anakin's thrusts wracking his body, Anakin's blind fury tight around his mind, so much like barbed wire, metal and cinder cut into his palms and knees, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe  
he was still, if just barely, breathing and thinking, wondering what would snap first: his back or the strip of a bridge they clung to  
Anakin's fingers were leaving burns and bruises _desperate_, he would not stop if the flames swallowed them whole, and _it was not working_ their bond ripped, twisted, torn raw, caught up in this self-destructing circle of fear-hate-violence  
for nothing Anakin did to him could hurt more, and  
pain exploded beautifully fading stars, then blackout  
...Anakin's release hit them both unawares, the last burst of incandescent white, breaking his death grip, severed and cauterized  
he did not feel himself fall.  
he did not feel himself rise either, only saw Anakin step back and lick his dry lips. poor wide-eyed burning up Anakin. saw fine tremors run through that perfect body  
they somehow always forgot what _he_ was.  
he tried to say something, he would remember the want but forget the words, only his mouth was too dry, his throat hurt too badly, so he did not get past a couple of gasps  
spread his hands helplessly, and reached out  
it was not a blow, not even a touch, but the force of it caught the confused Sith up and pushed him gently over the edge.  
they were no more. 


	2. present indefinite

**2. present indefinite**

he's been rescued eventually, must have been, though fine details are all but a blur now.  
_they_ have been rescued.  
he recalls lights in the sky, cold white lights sputtering on the feverish-hot planet's breath; he recalls Padmé being gently carried in someone's arms, not his, no, though he does remember the sickening clammy feel of her skin  
so strange feeling so cold on the inside when on the outside everything burst out in flames at the merest touch  
he must have said something about touching, must have asked them not to, because no one carried him onboard in their arms, thank goodness, just the soft pull of the Force and the soft, smooth, cool metal of the deck.  
he clings to the cool.  
feels the ship's steady heartbeat hum.  
Organa's ship. as absurdly there and trustworthy as the man himself...  
...speak of the devil.  
Bail Organa's just way too tall. Obi-Wan tries to fit him all in one glance, from shiny black boots to grey-silver rumbling top, and comes down with vertigo.  
vertigo, but no pain. there is none. had not been since Anakin...  
Obi-Wan tastes that particular memory, and throws up all over the shiny black. and a vestige of Mustafar must've crept onboard with him, it wraps around his head, and everything goes dirty red at once.  
next time there is a cloak draped over him - space is cold - and fresh water smell makes him think remember  
"Padmé?"  
"She lives."  
"So does he."  
his voice amazingly fails to break. his body got other ideas, though, and he sees dirty red again, only in stains now, stains and runnels on leather black about to burst in flames any second  
but they don't. it doesn't.  
he passes out cold - cool.  
he does not stand by Padmé's side when the time comes, Bail does. he lies on a medical bed in the next room, half-drugged out of his mind, with fractures, shock, concussion, nasty burns and what have you  
he can touch her. he does, reaching out of the wreck of their bodies, through the sterile walls of glass, through.  
there is a clarity in death, he knows now, for Padmé also can touch him, and her last breath, her last word is to him - about Anakin - and he hears it clear like a bell, a little silver bell ringing gently in his heart,  
and when Bail Organa turns as well, with baby Luke in his arms, and Yoda too -   
he sees them all, lives like silver lining, unwind and entwine and go on forever because there is the Force  
for a moment he knows the future as it is going to be.  
but that is all right, for it's just a moment, perfect but passing, and then there is here. and now. 


	3. future perfect

**3. future perfect**

as the world falls apart, all the small things, tricks and secrets -  
like this deep quiet valley of calm lying just beyond. about as close to perfection as one can get and stay alive...  
because they are alive, amazingly solid and whole  
though he had to touch to be certain  
warm and breathing  
(and the drugs had worn off)  
and it's hard to maintain,  
because future and past are rocking the boat of his mind back & forth wicked rhythm mesmerizing -  
no, not going there, not ever -  
but now there is not even pain, no anger, no loss, nothing bitter, only shame: a lukewarm, mildly sickening feeling,  
so he is calm inside out,  
moving speaking being with a slow underwater grace.  
for once he has but to follow,  
his future all decided,  
plain and simple,  
and for something like a second...  
then Yoda just says it  
a few simple words strung together almost randomly  
making something deep inside him break and burst  
spilling wonderful hot crushing holds, shells and shields,  
scouring his soul pure blank clean new.  
just a name.  
and suddenly the future can be  
just getting there,  
one day at a time.  
as the world falls apart, nobody seems to care about a Jedi Knight or something  
losing it and laughing through tears  
halfway to his stolen spaceship,  
quietly  
only Bail Organa who cannot _help_ but care  
_could be the death of you someday_  
breath-taking overflow bright  
_crossroads_  
future perfect  
_love_  
sealed in salt and hope. 


End file.
